Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [106]
He walked down Cumberland Street and crossed St Vincent Street. His shop was at the Stockbridge end of St Stephen Street, near the Bailie Bar, tucked under an antique dealer’s and a shop that sold paste jewellery. It was not quite as large as he would have liked it to be, but it was big enough, and there was always the possibility of opening up an old under-street cellar that might do for the storage of wine. The rent, though, was bearable, and flush with the agreed injection of funds from his friend George, Bruce was confident that he would have no difficulty in acquiring an impressive stock list. And he was confident that in time the shop would become a place of pilgrimage for the discerning Edinburgh wine-buyer. After all, he asked himself: is there much competition? There were certainly a few fuddy-duddy people here and there, but they were so middle-aged, and nowadays people want youth, vigour and good looks. All of which I have, thought Bruce; that, together with a knowledge of wine and a good palate.
The agent from the letting solicitors was waiting for him at the door. He was a serious-looking young man with horn-rimmed 222 Bruce’s Enterprise
glasses and a slightly-worried expression. “Oh no,” Bruce said to himself. “Yawn, yawn.” They shook hands, the young man wrinkling his nose slightly at the cloves.
“Essence of cloves,” said Bruce. “Like it?”
They moved inside.
“You should find everything in order,” said the agent. “We had a slight leak in the sink in the back room, but the plumber came in and fixed that. Everything seems in good order. Lights. Look.” He moved to the switch and turned it on.
“Lumière!” said Bruce.
The agent stared at him. “And I gather that you don’t need to do much to the fittings.”
Bruce looked at the shelves. They were exactly the right size for the display of wine bottles.
“Perfect for bottles,” said Bruce, taking the keys from the young man. “And will I have the pleasure of selling you wine in the near future? I’ll have an excellent range.”
“Thank you,” said the young man. “But I don’t drink.”
“You could start,” said Bruce cheerfully. “Cut your teeth on something fairly light – a German white maybe. The sort of thing women go for.”
The young man pursed his lips. “No, thank you,” he said.
“You sure?” asked Bruce. “It’ll loosen you up a bit. You know what I mean?”
“Have you everything you need?” asked the young man. “If you do, I’ll be getting back to the office.”
He left, and Bruce shook his head. What a wimp! But even with such unpromising material he thought that he had made a fairly good impression with his sales pitch and he looked forward to being able to try his salesman skills on other customers. He looked about the shop. All he had to do now was to give the place a bit of a dusting, order the stock, and arrange for the various bits and pieces to be installed. Then he would be in business! He looked at his watch. He could work until just before noon, when he was due to meet the wholesaler whom he had contacted. They were to meet in the Bailie, and they could go over the list there. The wholesaler, who was somebody Bruce
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had met once or twice at the rugby club, had promised to give him substantial discounts.
“I cut my margins to the bone when I deal with chaps from the club,” he had said. “You’ll get the stuff virtually at cost.”
Then he had lowered his voice.
“And I’ve got some cases of Petrus, would you believe? Don’t spread it around, whatever you do, because everyone will want some and I can’t satisfy everybody.